Broken, bruised, forgotten, sore
by vethia
Summary: a very short legato fic, adapted from some roleplaying i did... it's angsty. what else can i say? contains spoilers.


ok... there actually _are_ some kinda-sorta-spoilers in here, so please don't read this unless you've seen the series, ok? that being said... 

this is actually adapted from a roleplay i'm involved with which rachel thought was cool enough to use in her latest piece, so i figured i might as well post it. hope you enjoy. 

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"I have ordered them all to leave me alone. I need to be alone. I need them all to leave me ALONE. I... can't listen to them any more, can't deal with them, can't watch them--watch them--" He chokes on his words, unable to continue. 

Shallow, shuddering breaths echo in the empty room. 

"How can they _do_ that? How can they..." The voice trails off, unable to complete the thought aloud. His face twists into a mask of anger, fighting to keep any other emotions at bay. Anger is safe. Anger is release. Anger is acceptable. He can drown his sorrow in anger. 

"It's not fair. _It's not fair._ It's not... fair... You left him. You LEFT him, damn you, and in so doing created me. I am nothing but your shadow. I can never be anything but a pale imitation of you. He loves you, you know.... loves you more than you can imagine." He chokes back a sob, unable to maintain the rage. "_Why can't he love me like that?_ I've given him everything he's ever asked for, everything he demands... and he gives me _nothing._ He only wants to make me into you... 

"GOD DAMN HIM. Or is it you...? You are a part of me, you know. A part of me that _he_ stole, that he twisted into this perverse facsimile of you. You you you." A soft chuckle, somewhere between laughter and tears. "It's always about you, isn't it? It's always... about _you._" 

He sinks down, sliding against a wall, eyes fixed on the darkness of the ceiling. It seems to be composed of patterns, light and dark (or is it dark and dark?) swirling and competing. It reminds him of white noise. Strange how colors seem like sounds. Perhaps it's all the same thing, after all, all five senses. Perhaps we simply seperate them because our puny minds cannot handle the complexity of a single, beautiful, crystalline-faceted world. Perhaps _he_ sees (feels? hears? tastes? smells?) differently. 

The barest whisper escapes cracked lips. "You..." 

He lifts his left arm and examines it in the pale moonlight filtering down from the window. "You... are a part of me. We are not so different, you and I. We both serve him. You just don't know your place yet. And I--? I am made to be you! How utterly hilarious. I think I shall die laughing. I really do think that I shall DIE LAUGHING." Pronouncing the statement seems to breathe verity into the words, as he bursts into desperate laughter, which fades quickly into soft sobs as he buries his head in his hands. 

"What have I become? What was I, once? I don't remember... you stole that from me. You stole me from me. You--you--" He rips the leather off of his left arm. The liquid-velvet voice takes on a high, slightly frantic quality. "I'll get you back. I will--just you wait. I obey his will, but I add my own vengeance." 

The man grabs a knife from the table, knocking over the candle as he does so. It hits the rough dirt floor and flickers, wavers, and dies. "You're not all here... but a part of you is. I can still hurt you. I can make you pay." The right hand caresses the blade, then transfers control, baring his left arm to the knife. 

"Do you feel this....? Do you feel what you have made of me?" The skin of the left wrist dimples slightly as he presses the blade gently against the smooth surface. Veins pump softly, invitingly. A moment of hesitation--a moment only. 

_Bite of steel. Soft gasp of pain. Bite--lip. Breathe. Dig deeper. Cut deeper, _coward._ Go farther, _weakling_ What's wrong with you? You want this. You like this. Pain makes it real. Pain sets you free. He can't touch this. Say I'm not good enough, will he? Act like I'm not good enough? Am I not--fucking--GOOD ENOUGH? _Cut deeper._ One, two, three, five, a hundred times, red stains the cracks, seeps through, drips down, pools below. Still there must be more. I'll show you who's the coward. I'll show you who's not worthy. For each drop that dries, I will bring out another. Paint the whole world red. Together, he and I will paint the whole world red, and I will start with you. Your little part of me. All red..._

The knife clatters to the ground. Both hands shake, one white, one stained red, shivering uncontrollably. Blotches of red stain the pristine white coat and matt the slick blue hair as his head sinks into his hands. 

From outside, if one listened very, very closely, one might hear soft sobs carried on the moonlit breeze. 

"There. There, you bastard. I... hope you felt that. 

"If only... if only I could cut you out of me so easily." 

The voice drops to a whisper, low and harsh. "Damn you, Vash." 

Red clots, congeals, and fades to black. 


End file.
